


weather bird rag

by couldaughter



Category: Lord Peter Wimsey - Dorothy L. Sayers
Genre: Curtain Fic, Domestic Fluff, F/M, Sorry I Can't Get Through Even 1000 Words Of Wimsey Without Mentioning My Main Boy Charles Parker, other characters (mentioned) - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-25
Updated: 2019-12-25
Packaged: 2021-02-26 03:49:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,151
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21837010
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/couldaughter/pseuds/couldaughter
Summary: “Oh, Bunter,” said Peter reprovingly. “I have never complained about anything of the least consequence.”
Relationships: Harriet Vane/Peter Wimsey, Mervyn Bunter & Harriet Vane, Mervyn Bunter & Peter Wimsey
Comments: 12
Kudos: 107
Collections: Yuletide 2019





	weather bird rag

**Author's Note:**

  * For [pale_and_tragic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pale_and_tragic/gifts).



> There is a longer fic in the works which I sadly did not manage to complete in time for the Yuletide deadline so watch out for that coming down the pipeline in [checks watch] 2021! Hope you enjoy this shorter scene in the life of domestic bliss that is pre-WW2 Wimseys. Gherkins hasn't even got in a plane yet.

The winter of ‘37 was a difficult one for the Wimsey family for a number of reasons.

First, Bunter was struck down with a horrid case of the ‘flu and remained bedbound for a week, despite protests on his own part and the part of his mother - although the Wimseys themselves never did discover how she found out about her son’s temporary infirmity, not having conveyed any messages to the postman or the telegraph office. 

This was not to even consider the number of confidential envelopes Peter was delivered over the course of their convalescence, these being one of the few things that Harriet had seen turn her husband a ghostly white at a mere glimpse.

Then, after a deceptive lull in common and garden inconvenience, the rest of the household suffered a similar fate, left to the tender mercies of a recently pampered valet with far too much time on his hands. The ‘flu gave no quarter and offered no mercy.

Thus, it was with an air of extreme belligerence that Lord and Lady Peter Wimsey welcomed in the New Year, freshly released from their sickbeds and with the Parker-Wimseys an encroaching speck on the horizon.

There were Epiphany plans.

“Do you suppose, dearest,” said Harriet, perched inconsequentially on the sill of the bay window. “That there was ever an atmosphere less conducive to the real enjoyment of a good book?” She glanced out of the window. Snow drifted idly past, down towards the cobbled streets below. The mantel clock struck six, a full two minutes after the last peal of church bells faded into the night. It needed winding quite badly.

Peter, who was at that very moment squinting at a few inches of newsprint about Haile Selassie, shook his head. “I’ve rarely occasioned worse. Most unbecoming to the spirit, having such a taskmaster of a manservant.”

Laying down the duster, Bunter turned from his spot by the bookshelves. He looked as affronted as he ever did at their antics, which was to say, not at all. 

“If his Lordship has any complaints…” he began, as formal as could be expected after the previous fortnight.

“Oh, Bunter,” said Peter reprovingly. “I have never complained about anything of the least consequence.”

Harriet snorted, and turned the page of her pot-boiler. The murderer was about to explain how they came to acquire such a large collection of ancient Abyssinian arrowheads. The alliteration was a balm to her recently-feverish mind.

Bunter merely inclined his head, pivoting neatly on his heel towards the hearthrug. “It seems that even a week of strict bedrest has not removed your wit, my lord.” 

“More’s the pity,” Peter agreed. He pushed himself up from the settee, wobbled manfully, and began to cough as if he no longer knew how to breathe. Alarmed and breathless herself, Harriet started upwards. Bunter, ever efficient, caught Peter by the elbow and steadied him in one practiced motion.

Peter sighed, his breath a whistle. “Am I an invalid still, nanny?”

Harriet glanced at Bunter, only to find her glance returned with a quite magnificent roll of the eyes. 

Smiling despite herself, Harriet watched as Bunter shepherded his charge into the dressing room, away from the clouds of treacherous dust. She often found herself grateful for Bunter’s presence in their marriage - not least when recalling long winter nights at Shrewsbury waiting for her egg to soft boil - but rarely more so than in the past few weeks. 

“You really are a remarkable manipulator,” she commented on his return. 

Bunter inclined his head. “A rare compliment, milady.”

“How is his lordship?” she asked, _sotto voce,_ leaning her chin in the cradle of her palm. “I’ve my own estimation, of course, but an expert opinion is greatly valued.” The last few weeks had been difficult for reasons beyond the expected. 

There had been a number of moments, lying awake in a feverish haze, when Harriet had been almost sure that Peter didn’t know who she was. An unsettling certainty, to be sure, but one which had never extended to Bunter. Bunter, it seemed, was Peter’s universal constant. The object which, proverbially, remained unmoved.

“As well as can be expected,” demurred Bunter. He leant to contemplate the feather duster, concealed (poorly) his own cough, and declined further study by way of straightening the afghan draped over the settee. “His Lordship has certainly seen worse.”

“His Lordship still possesses both ears,” called Peter, voice cracking. “And they really _are_ so big just to hear you with, you know.”

Harriet pushed herself up from the sill with an indelicate grunt and crossed through to the dining room with a waifish elegance quite unsuited to the occasion. Peter, sat crossways in a chair with no arms, looked up in alarm. 

“Just me,” she offered, sliding onto the sliver of cushion left uncovered by his dressing gown. “How’s the chest?”

“Chest-like,” said Peter glibly. He sipped at a glass of water and swallowed with visible effort. “It’s the throat that’s the real culprit.”

“There’s an obvious opportunity for wordplay there,” said Harriet. Her head came to rest upon her husband’s shoulder. The silk of his dressing gown made this a more active task than might be reasonably expected. “But in deference to your decrepitude I shall not indulge myself.”

Peter smiled. “Much appreciated, dearest heart.” He yawned, jaw cracking, and pulled Harriet closer into his side. “We’ve rather slept the month away, but would you object terribly to a few hours more?”

“Weary with toil,” Harriet observed. “I haste thee to thy bed.” Bed, she had often found, was a somewhat fraught concept when one could only imagine it at some distance. When it was in easy reach, as when one’s husband was suggesting turning in unfashionably early, it became the most inviting possibility in the world.

“To coin a phrase,” Peter replied. He stood, more steady than before, and tightened his arm about Harriet’s waist. “Bunter,” he called. “Please do take a much deserved rest from our pestering.”

“Much obliged, my lord,” said Bunter. Harriet watched as he faltered slightly, propriety warring viciously with sentiment. “I am sure there are matters that must be attended to.”

“Hang the matters,” said Peters. “Nothin’ is worth attending to on New Year’s Day.”

“You could write your Resolutions,” suggested Harriet. “Mine is to keep Peter on the leash more often. He simply won’t stop dashing off, you know.”

“I have already made my Resolution, Lady Peter,” said Bunter. 

Peter narrowed his eyes in delight. “Oh?” 

“I believe you are a detective, my lord,” Bunter said. “I shall leave it to your considerable skills of deduction.”

This, Harriet decided, was the signal to take Peter to bed. 

And so they went.

Bunter, for his own part, finished dusting the bookcase and settled into bed himself with a mug of strong tea and a plate of buttered toast. It was a highly satisfactory arrangement.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for the title go to King Oliver's Creole Jazz Band, without whom Louis Armstrong would never have been first trumpet.
> 
> Betaed by my mother, who sent me lexico references unsolicited. I love her very much.
> 
> What is writing Wimsey fic but googling faintly recalled Shakespeare quotes, fast? (In this case the quote is a paraphrase of Sonnet 27 but in the past it has included, I believe, Cymbeline and Coriolanus. Shakespeare's Greatest Hits)


End file.
